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If you missed it on Facebook, here it is again: Exciting news! My short story Crude Lake was accepted into Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror. This anthology is scheduled to be published in the summer of 2017 by Scarlet Galleon Publications. I’m so excited for this anthology and to work with Mark Parker, Publisher & Managing Editor at Scarlet Galleon Publications. Here’s a portion of the acceptance letter that made a dream come true.

“Scarlet Galleon Publications thanks you for your submission to FEARFUL FATHOMS: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror. We enjoyed reading your submission and truly appreciate you sharing it with us. We are writing to let you know that your submission “Crude Lake” has been selected for inclusion in the final anthology. It is an honor and pleasure to have you on board!”

Lydia Moss had lost everything in a house blaze. She was 35, disfigured by the fire and haunted by the dying screams of her family. Her mind drifted on morphine, prescribed for her excruciating epidermal pain, and her thoughts meandered between senseless ideas of the living and the dead. She missed her family, and home, but she had plans to replace both.

Firstly, insurance money helped Lydia move into a new house. A neighbour dropped by, and he cringed at her hideousness: patchy hair, partial nose, mottled webs of skin grafts. He offered only hearsay during his short visit. He said her home was built over a landfill site where mafia victims begged for their lives before execution. She didn’t need to know that and shooed him away.

The next night Lydia enacted her final plan, and at the kitchen table she created dolls; effigies of her dead family: husband, four kids and granddad. Tomorrow she’d stake them in the garden for a pretend reunion. By four in the morning Lydia had almost completed the dolls when the front door slammed. Clatter tore through the house. The kitchen cupboards banged and something scratched and clawed beneath the floorboards.

Then silence.

Lydia believed it was a sign. Her family had come to her. She picked up the unfinished doll of her four year old daughter Alison and finished her work before bed.

Lydia slept until noon. After she woke she staked the dolls in the garden for the reunion. Alison was the last to be staked in this family of scarecrows. But first, Lydia had to braid her daughter’s straw hair. “There my love, all done.”

“I love you Mommy.”

Lydia’s heart cramped with fear, and she tossed the talking effigy to the grass.

The other dolls flexed on their stakes and turned their button eyes on her.

“Please help.”

“Don’t kill me.”

“I don’t want to die.”

These pleas were not her family, they belonged to the murdered. Lydia’s mind cracked and bled a sick revelation: if she couldn’t have her family then these poor souls, these replacements, would do.

The Damned: Danny Orchard wrote a bestselling memoir about his near-death experience in a fire that claimed the life of his twin sister, Ashleigh, but despite the resulting fame and fortune he’s never been able to enjoy his second chance at life. Ash won’t let him. In life, Danny’s charming and magnetic twin had been a budding psychopath who privately terrorized her family—and death hasn’t changed her wicked ways. Ash has haunted Danny for twenty years and now, just when he’s met the love of his life and has a chance at real happiness, she wants more than ever to punish him for being alive—so she sets her sights on Danny’s new wife and stepson. Danny knows what Ash really wants is him, and he’s prepared to sacrifice himself in order to save the ones he loves. The question is: will he make it back this time?

My Review: I first discovered Andrew Pyper when I read his previous novel The Demonologist. The prose in that book had literally reached up from the pages and slapped my senses scared. I wasn’t just reading the story, I was experiencing it. Andrew doesn’t let this fan down in The Damned and sets the senses ablaze. Pyper has crafted a story of suspense and horror that transcends this world and plummets the reader into a dark After-world. There are many highlights in The Damned for me: how to tell twins apart, the surreal imagery of the After and the horror of the dryer scene. The dryer scene alone is worthy of the fact that Legendary Pictures has optioned this novel for the big screen. However, the most prominent highlight for me was being subjected to the vile and twisted soul of Ashleigh Orchard. Pyper’s daughter of the underworld, an insidious psychopath who’s both unstoppable in life as she is in death. Set against the background of Detroit (an allusion to that which is damned) the story alternates between the realm of the living and the dead. The Damned traces a sibling rivalry (born in hell) between Ash and her brother Danny Orchard. The story ignites after a house fire sends Ash and Danny to the After-world, but when Danny survives, his sister’s soul becomes restless. Ash pursues Danny from the other-side making his life a living hell. And when Danny’s new family is threatened by Ash’s unrelenting ghost he’s forced to confront his venomous sister in the After-world where he uncovers sinister truths that will keep you gasping to the very end.

About the Author: Andrew Pyper is the award-winning author of six internationally bestselling novels. Lost Girls won the Arthur Ellis Award, was selected as a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and appeared on the New York Times and Times (UK) bestseller lists. The Killing Circle was a New York Times Best Crime Novel of the Year. Three of Pyper’s novels, including The Demonologist, are in active development for feature film. www.andrewpyper.com

I’m very excited to announce that my flash-fiction piece “Danny” was published on the Quick Brown Fox Blog today. Click here to read a creepy piece of paranormal fiction that seems to be scaring people.

Let me know what you think of the piece by commenting on the blog. Thanks for reading.

Sitting in the shadowy room on the edge of my eight year old son’s bed seemed routine lately. I had never seen him so frightened. His face, warmed only by the hallway light, was a pageantry of dread: puppy dog eyes, quivering lips, and tears, all pulled at my heart strings. I sensed fear in his voice, and whatever he was afraid of in the closet seemed real to him.

I remember being a kid and the shadows that moved in my bedroom at night. I remember calling out for my parents—all too often. When no one came I froze. I felt paralyzed with fear, lying stiff in bed under my sheets. I would wish for the morning to come; wanting sunlight to warm between the slits of my window blind, driving the darkness and monsters away. I don’t recall if my terror of the dark was legitimate, but older now, my adult mind seemed stripped of any silly childhood fears. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up; you shed that part of you or repress it. But still, to this day, I wonder what had set my imagination so vividly in motion? What was behind those bumps in the night that sent me into sweats of panic?

Witnessing my son pulling the covers up over his head and writhing under his sheets had reminded me of my own childhood monsters. But that fear of creeping demons slithering in the shadows was what my son felt. What I felt was a much different fear—a primal worry—an instinct every parent feels for a child when danger is present, and it’s my job to protect him.

“Kieran, we’ve gone over this repeatedly for the last few nights, there’s nothing in your closet. Now it’s time to sleep. I have lots of work to do tonight.” I moved to stand, but didn’t get far.

“Dad, please don’t go.” He had reached up and wrapped his tiny arms around me. His fleece pajamas felt soft, cozy and had a fresh baby powder scent that released memories of my baby boy swaddled in my arms. I hugged him firmly—holding onto those sweet thoughts—ready to soothe his fears; that’s what dads do.

“It’ll be okay. You’re safe.”

“But Dad, I hate it when he taps on the closet door.”

The blood in my ears began to pound and a spiralling back-chill rattled my superstitious fears. My son had spoken casually, without hesitation, as if he’d spoken a truth. It was the kind of statement any kid could make, seemingly genuine, spooky, and able to drive a stake of horror into the hearts of adults. Phrases like: what’s that man doing in the mirror, and nothing is there, or why is grandma visiting today, although she’s been dead for weeks. Those expressions mean something. Something adults can’t see or understand. Uneasiness fills me, and the child inside was scared—terrified like my son—but I mentally remind myself, I’m the parent, and so I denied my jitters.

“Kieran, quit being silly,” I said. “There’s no tapping, and there’s nothing in your closet.”

“Can I sleep with you tonight, please Dad?”

“No. You’re a big boy. You sleep in your own bed.” I gently laid him back on his pillow and his arms released me. I tucked the covers up to his chin and kissed him on the forehead. “Now go to sleep. You have school tomorrow.” I rose off his bed and my son had a shocked expression as if I’d thrown him to the wolves. “Good night son.” A whimper and he turned on his side and pulled the covers over his head.

To believe bed sheets are an impenetrable shield from the things that lurk in the dark seemed instinctive for a child—and adults too. I remember hiding beneath my sheets as a child. They were my only defence for keeping the Boogeyman at bay and stopping the monsters under my bed from snatching me—but would it be enough to keep the boy in the closet? A creepy sensation prickled and crawled over my skin like skittering spiders. I walked out of my son’s bedroom; side-glancing the closet. The single white door appeared gray in the dark. It was closed, and I thought the door knob turned slightly, but perhaps my imagination—generating kilowatts of trepidation—fuelled the illusion. I reminded myself, nothing is happening here. There was nothing in his room or that damn closet—despite what the history of this house might allude.

After my wife died I had a hard time stabilizing my finances, and the only way to make ends meet was to buy this house. A house with a disturbed past—priced to sell—because of the skeleton in the closet. We had lived here for a week, and there were only two rooms. I gave myself the master bedroom, and had put my son in this room which fanned flames of guilt in the hearth of my heart, and now he keeps referring to a boy in the closet. It was uncanny. My son had no idea what had happened in this house. I tried to convince myself that boys—kids for that matter—made things up in their heads. They role-played, acted out games, told tales, but sometimes the more you tell a story, the more real it becomes. The truth was Danny used to live in this room. He was a boy almost my son’s age.

I left his bedroom, and reached to turn off the hall light. I held my finger on the switch.

“Dad,” his soft voice grabbed my ears. I turned, and saw him peeking from beneath his covers. “I love you.”

I had moved to the living room. I had work to do and deadlines to meet. I sat down at my desk to write. I was finishing a new novel—one that my publisher said would catapult my career—and with the mild success of my last horror book, I felt he was right.

I had typed five hundred words onto the computer screen when it happened again, just like last night. My desk lamp flickered. An instinctive feeling of being watched exploded in my mind. I whipped around in my chair—my son stood in the hall.

“He’s tapping again, Dad.”

My son held a bleak and vacant expression. The darkness of the hallway, behind my son, appeared to slither, bubble and swirl in sheaves of shadow; a black void ready to swallow him. My eyes had to be playing a trick on my mind. A few horror movies crept into my head and my imagination was wild with fear. Images of children creeping in the night, or in cornfields, had always scared the hell out of me, and I cursed Stephen King. I’d had enough.

“What are you talking about?” I said in a flat, irate tone—my attempt at denial.

“I’m talking about the boy in my closet. He’s trying to get out.”

I stared blankly at my son. His pajamas hung off his small bony frame. I wanted this nightmare to end. “Son—please, there’s no boy.”

“But Dad, I can hear him asking me to open the closet door and let him out.”

Jesus—there it was again, a genuine expression. The authenticity was like a sprung trap, inescapable, a snare all parents eventually find themselves caught in—having to believe their kid out of pure faith, trusting they’re telling the truth. But I couldn’t allow myself to believe my son’s claim was true.

“Get to bed.” It came out bluntly.

“But Dad,” his eyes begged me to help him.

“Kieran, go to bed. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” My son stood quiet, unmoved. My voice roared, “I said go to bed now!”

His face sank. All the love between us was drained. Had I been too harsh? My fears seemed to be surfacing as anger, but it was the only reaction I had left. How else—at this point—to make him go to bed other than yell?

My son turned and ran back to his room. I swung around in my chair and faced the computer screen. I rested my elbows on the desk and buried my face in my hands. I felt awful. This boy in the closet business had driven me crazy, and I had a whole night of work ahead. I lifted my head out of my hands, reached for my mouse and clicked on the Google icon in my Internet browser. I typed in Preston house murder, and the abhorrent article appeared.

“Creemore, Ontario – June 6, 2012 – Ontario Provincial Police discover gruesome scene at 16 Brody Drive. The body of six year old Danny Preston was removed from the house after neighbours expressed concern over the wellbeing of Elizabeth Preston, mother to Danny. The single mother had been seen alone and rocking vigorously, on numerous occasions, on the front porch talking nonsense. The odd behaviour alerted neighbour Bill Henderson to call police—”She’d been out on that porch rock’n and cradling air. She kept singing ‘hush little baby, don’t you cry’ over and over again. I hadn’t seen Danny for weeks and felt something was wrong.”—Elizabeth Preston was taken into custody for not providing the necessities of life for her son. The boy’s body was found in his room locked in the closet. The Coroner’s report suggested, by the state of decomposition, the boy had died a week ago. Toxicology tests showed rat poison in small doses had been placed in food delivered under the closet door on paper plates, which the boy had stacked together to make a pillow—”

“Dad, Danny’s scaring me!” My son’s voice bellowed from his bedroom.

My eyes shut. I slid my hands onto my head and gripped tufts of my hair between my fingers—this is not happening. My bottom lip trembled. It was all hauntingly real now, and my heart raced. An intense fear rose within me, my ears were hot, my senses spun. I gathered the courage to get up. I had to protect my son. I shoved off from my desk and jumped up from my chair. My slippers squeaked on the hardwood floor as I charged down the hall. I was determined to prove that nothing was happening. I had planned to fling the closet door open and confirm to my son—to me—that nothing was inside. This was all childhood imagination gone berserk.

I raced into my son’s room. I flicked on the light—light always makes bad things go away—my son was crying. My eyes shot to the closet door. The air felt thick and energized. The door was rattling. I became light-headed, terror stricken, and beneath the door a small hand, fingers stretched, clawing at the carpet, a child’s raspy whisper alive in my head—help me.

Something is happening in this world that seems to hover in the shadows of our sensory perception, but every now and then, for a brief moment, that something comes into range. There are many stories in the media of sensible and credible people experiencing paranormal events and witnessing apparitions. The Internet is awash in “true stories” of the paranormal and plastered with ghostly photographs and videos. Television programming captures empirical evidence of ghosts in the hit show Long Island Medium, where Theresa Caputo has an uncanny ability to channel spirits, and TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society) logs ghostly encounters by using instruments designed to capture disembodied voices and movements of the departed. Some footage is astonishing and explainable, but what these shows bring to light is the question: Do you believe in ghosts?

I believe most of us have had some form of engagement with the supernatural (I have), and as frightening as these encounters might seem these events teach us something about ourselves: there’s a lurking monster in our fear of the unknown. The less we understand something and the more it defies natural reason, the more it frightens us. I attempt to expose that formula of fear in my short story entitled “Danny” (to read click here). The story was written to evoke a feeling in the reader, prodding them with something unknown, something defying natural reason, and I channel this through the main character’s young son. At the end of the story, a thrilling tension bursts into a realization of terror regarding that unknown and without any reasonable explanation for this unknown a chilling fear surfaces in one of the characters. If I’ve done my job well as a writer that fear transfers to the reader. I want that chilling feeling to stay with them after the story, and in the future the reader may nervously second glance every closet door in their home—mission accomplished.

This brings me to note that the reader or each of us has a different way of interpreting our experiences with the paranormal. When we struggle to stitch logic around those experiences we find the boundaries of what we define as normal and preternatural, blurred and breeched. It leaves me to wonder about my opening question, “Do you believe in ghosts?” I have a feeling the answer to that question rests solely with the individual perceiving the experience and how they choose to interpret it.

Take a moment to recall a paranormal experience in your life. Remember that feeling of facing something unexplainable and terrifying. Perhaps it was a ghost, a phantom whisper, a knocking poltergeist or a moving shadow at the end of your bed. You’re a reasonable person, you’re educated, you have street smarts, but still you can’t frame this experience in any logical way. I ask you: if you’ve encountered a paranormal event, or when your time comes to behold something so terrifying, do we really have any choice but to trust our senses, and believe?

Author

Darryl is a night owl writer. He holds an honours degree in Psychology and certificate in Criminology from the University of Windsor. He loves to read and write thrilling stories stirred with supernatural flavours. He resides in Collingwood, north of Toronto.